


after the body goes

by pixiepower



Series: twisted teeth, but i bet they’re gentle [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Vampire Sex, implied blood drinking but soft?, they’re in love but haven’t talked about it is all, vampire bites but soft?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 22:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower/pseuds/pixiepower
Summary: Minghao likes to pull noises and breath out of Mingyu, likes to see him flush and watch the warmth spread over his skin, likes to splay his soft, elegant hands across the breadth of Mingyu and feel him shudder. Minghao says it’s because he’s so pretty, so alive, it makes him feel alive too. His eyes are always so focused when they look at Mingyu, like he’s studying a specimen never before discovered in nature.But that can’t be true. Minghao has met plenty of humans, has surely had many of them like this. And after Mingyu is gone, as every human goes, Minghao will remain.•Mingyu’s just a human, fallen into Minghao’s boudoir. And his coven house. And his life. Maybe it’s all right if he stays just a little while.





	after the body goes

**Author's Note:**

> title from 35mm’s “transition 2,” written by ryan scott oliver.
> 
> a companion to [me and my mister for the rest of our life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901227). that will give context, but i think this can stand alone. consider this a midquel, the other half of a scene. enjoy!

Afraid is one word for it.

Mingyu could just as easily use _ apprehensive, _ or _ wary, _ or _ trepidatious, _or any of the other myriad words he’s looked up in a thesaurus app to help the kids at the tutoring center, to describe the way he felt going into this whole thing. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to. That doesn’t mean his body didn’t sing with the wanting, that it didn’t drip with it like melting ice cream in his hand.

If that were true, he wouldn’t be here now. Mingyu doesn’t do things halfway. And neither, clearly, does Minghao.

More and more often lately Mingyu finds himself like this: sprawled out on Minghao’s four poster bed, reading quietly aloud one of the myriad books from Minghao’s bookshelf. Tonight is poetry, written by an author Mingyu’s never heard of, from a publisher he thinks went out of print years ago, but the condition is pristine, the embroidered spine still silky and smooth. The light in the room is brighter than usual, both of the lamps on either bedside illuminating the pages.

“It’s not too light in here?” Mingyu asks, hand holding the spine of the book open as he turns his face to look at Minghao over his shoulder, who shakes his head.

“Is it helping you read?”

Mingyu smiles down into the pages. “Yeah.”

“No, it isn’t too light,” Minghao hums, running a soft hand through Mingyu’s hair. He tries and fails not to lean into the touch, and a bloom of supernatural emotion settles over his shoulders like the first spread of sun in the summertime, something he would be able to tell is _ Minghao _from anyone, anywhere, in the middle of a crowd, Lotte World in the busy season.

(He should ask Minghao if they can go to Lotte World. Maybe in the winter. Mingyu saves it in his mental pocket for later.)

“Why—” Mingyu starts, feeling the tug of one of his cheeks as a lazy grin starts to spread across his face.

“Keep reading. I’m not looking at you,” Minghao interrupts softly, voice firm and bashful, and Mingyu laughs, lets him tangle their fingers together against the crook of his jaw. He takes a deep breath, feels Minghao’s grasp tighten just so at the rush under Mingyu’s skin.

As if he could help it, being around Minghao.

Mingyu hums thoughtfully, loosens his grasp to press Minghao’s fingertips directly over his pulse point. He arches his back a little and purses his lips, sweet. Deceptively so, because he knows Minghao can see right through him. “Well, why not?” 

He also knows Minghao will give in anyway.

And he does: “Give me something to look at, then,” Minghao says, low and tight, brushing a thumb over Mingyu’s carotid. Fond and testing. At the butterfly-wing pressure, Mingyu flutters his eyes shut, pretty like he knows it, and closes the book, sets it aside, sits back on his heels.

It only lasts a single performative moment before Mingyu grins and opens his eyes. Hand still lingering on Mingyu’s face, the line of Mingyu’s jaw, Minghao grins back, cheeks shy with it. The angle of his mouth shows all his teeth, fangs sweet over the lopsided way the corners of his mouth draw up. So beautiful.

“Kiss me?” Mingyu asks, and it exhales in a breath all at once.

“Of course.” Minghao’s hand slides up to tangle in Mingyu’s hair, long fingers caught up in it, and the way Minghao kisses Mingyu is slow and purposeful, like every millimeter of their lips are meeting for a million individual hellos. Like Minghao wants to memorize it, keep it, store it in his mind with the rest of his six hundred years of neatly-filed information, sense memories to look back on.

The first moment they kissed was so still, suspended, Mingyu could have heard a pin drop, a dust mote brush the floor, a moth breathe outside on the front step. All their gold-laden gazing for weeks on end hadn’t prepared Mingyu for the way Minghao tugged him close, quick as anything, asked quietly if he wanted to, and let Mingyu lean in first. Mingyu brushed their lips together, electric current, and that was all it took.

They kiss now, too, languorous and deep, Minghao’s thumb pressing gently against Mingyu’s neck, and even he can feel the thrum of his pulse ratchet up when Minghao drags his fangs softly over Mingyu’s lower lip. He tries and fails not to whine, and Minghao smiles into their kiss, tilting forward to unfold Mingyu and let him lie back against Minghao’s pillows. 

(All approximately four hundred of them, beautiful hand-embroidered monstrosities, precisely one of which smells of orchid, layered somewhere below the rest. Mingyu is confident he could figure out which it is, given enough time. _ Princess and the pea, _ he told Minghao once after a long night with his face buried in the pillows. Minghao’s eyes had crinkled with mirth, hand tightening in his.)

Comfortable like a weighted blanket, Minghao settles atop Mingyu, legs slotted together to stay close. Their kisses are unhurried, and Mingyu exhales, lips parting against Minghao’s as they move gently together, hands like ladybug feet along each other’s skin. His tongue catches gently on one of Minghao’s fangs, and Minghao draws back, eyes half-lidded and face syrupy-fond.

“I lied,” Minghao laughs a little wetly where Mingyu was licking into his mouth not a breath ago. “I’m always looking at you.”

Mingyu makes a face, wrinkling his nose but laughing anyway. “Yah, that’s cute,” he grins, and smiles easily up at Minghao’s perfect face. His long hair is falling in his eyes where they’re sparkling low like a tea light candle, burning brightest in a dark room. He can understand where Minghao is coming from, at least; Mingyu looked at Minghao for the first time a few months ago and has hardly looked away since.

A spark zooms down Mingyu’s spine as Minghao’s hand comes down to trace the inside of his wrist, the way he did the afternoon they met. Soft fingertips don’t meet mixed metals this time, though, just warm skin under his sweater, cozy and alive, a crackling fire. Minghao gazes down at him, closed mouth softly curled up at the edges like he’s remembering too. Mingyu leans his head up to kiss him again.

There’s a thoughtful little hum Minghao lets out, sliding his hands over Mingyu’s arms, down his chest, catching on the hem of his sweater. They wander delicately under the thick-knitted hem, like Mingyu toeing his way under Minghao’s sheets.

Mingyu gasps a little at the feeling, and Minghao doesn’t meet his eye, suppressing a smile as he gazes at his fingers pressing into Mingyu’s skin.

“You’re always so noisy.” It sounds fond.

Indignant, Mingyu says, “It tickles,” in explanation, and Minghao makes a (generously only half-disbelieving) noise of assent.

“You’re just sensitive,” Minghao argues fondly. As if to test his hypothesis, he lets his hands take a walk, sliding coolly, porcelain and paint, over Mingyu’s hips to brush lightly at his stomach. Mingyu pouts to disguise the way his tongue is clenched between his teeth, to shroud the way he wants to shiver. “Noooo, come on,” Minghao says encouragingly, eyes narrowed goodnaturedly.

He leans down to kiss Mingyu, teasing his mouth open, and, as soon as he does, pushes Mingyu’s sweater up to rake his nails gently over Mingyu’s stomach and up to his nipples. Mingyu’s eyes screw shut and his mouth betrays him, the traitorous way he goes pliant for Minghao allowing a breathy half-moan to escape.

Minghao giggles, and Mingyu groans, embarrassed, even as he feels the soothing wave of comfort roll off Minghao into his chest. He feels a flowery flush start at his neck, bloom up his cheeks and down his chest, _rosa multiflora, _and he lets out another little _haa-hh _when Minghao kisses his neck and rubs over his nipple more firmly. “There we go, honey,” Minghao murmurs, thumbs running back down his chest.

The inquiry is not purely scientific, Mingyu knows; Minghao likes to pull noises and breath out of Mingyu, likes to see him flush and watch the warmth spread over his skin, likes to splay his soft, elegant hands across the breadth of Mingyu and feel him shudder. Minghao says it’s because he’s so pretty, so alive, it makes him feel alive too. His eyes are always so focused when they look at Mingyu, like he’s studying a specimen never before discovered in nature.

But that can’t be true. Minghao has met plenty of humans, has surely had many of them like this. And after Mingyu is gone, as every human goes, Minghao will remain. And then there will be others, like this, for him. It makes Mingyu’s stomach turn. He doesn’t really want to think about it.

He says, “Minghao,” in his wrecked-est voice, and Minghao’s head pulls back. His eyes snap up to meet Mingyu’s from where they were tracing the line of his sweater, rucked up under his arms.

“Yes, Mingyu?” Minghao says. 

A smile plays on his face, but his eyes are concerned, and Mingyu wonders if Minghao could feel the way his mood dipped briefly, if it goes both ways like that. It’s happened enough times that they were out, where Minghao smiled at him over candlelit dinners, or laughed at his joke in a boutique, and that supernatural warmth just radiated out of him, lighting Mingyu up from the inside out. It wouldn’t surprise Mingyu if Minghao can tell how he’s feeling, too.

Even if he can, Minghao asked, so Mingyu says, achingly, “I want you.”

Fangs catching on his lower lip as he bites it, Minghao nods, says like a breath, like he needs to do either, “Yes. Yes,” and presses his mouth to Mingyu’s again. Their kiss has to break when Minghao tugs Mingyu’s sweater over his head, and Mingyu chases it through the fabric, making Minghao laugh that cute laugh again. Mingyu tingles with it, and he’s sort of starting to get the feeling that it's not all _ vampire-power _ shit. 

He doesn’t have any evidence to support that, but Minghao is grazing his teeth, his fangs, over Mingyu’s skin and he feels all warm and fluttery, a butterfly sanctuary’s grand opening buzzing through every atom of his body. How can something so sharp feel so soft?

“You can…” Mingyu starts, letting it trail off when Minghao sucks delicately over his pulse point. The press of fangs is so _ teasing. _A vision of possibility flickers through Mingyu and his toes tingle. Each touch of Minghao’s soft lips, soft hands, his legs tangled with Mingyu’s, sends him alight.

“What can I do for you?”

Mingyu scrunches his eyes shut and laughs breathlessly. He chickens out. “I just like your mouth on me.” Not a lie, distinctly not, but not the whole truth.

“Me too,” Minghao laughs, and that familiar warmth glimmers up Mingyu’s spine again.

It might have been a mistake to shroud the truth with another truth, because now Mingyu has to contend with Minghao pressing kisses across his jaw, tracing his tongue over his neck, dragging his teeth down his chest. The tip of Minghao’s nose runs teasingly just above the waistband on Mingyu’s shorts, and he wriggles eagerly. 

“Ah, more.”

“Slow down,” Minghao murmurs, voice soft against Mingyu’s hipbone.

Minghao is good at that, at tuning himself to whatever frequency Mingyu is vibrating on and encouraging Mingyu to slow his waves and breathe. There is always some sort of rush to get somewhere, do something, be better, do more, that eats away at Mingyu and makes him feel like if he isn’t making the most of his time he’s wasting it. But Minghao has been occupying space on this earth for six hundred years; undoubtedly he understands more intimately than anyone the value of time and how it should be spent. Mingyu is working on it.

(Minghao spends a lot of his time on Mingyu. Mingyu tries not to think about what that might mean.)

Mingyu whimpers, can’t help himself at the gentle scrape of fangs along his skin, but where his hips try to kick up rests Minghao’s forearm, casually slung over his lower belly, holding him down. It feels light, feather and bone and silk, but Mingyu can’t move, much as his body wants to respond to the kisses and grazes of teeth littering his side. Minghao is sure and strong, and Mingyu likes it.

When Minghao’s fingers hook into the waistband of his shorts, Mingyu’s breath catches in his throat. It exhales in a rush when Minghao follows the shorts down, only to lick delicately up the underside of Mingyu’s cock. Mingyu’s legs kick apart as he moans, and Minghao is so _ slow, _so deliberate, Mingyu kind of wants to scream.

He puts on his most desperate voice (and only half of it is really put on) to draw out, “Minghao-yah, please.”

“Okay, honey,” Minghao says, blissfully, finally, and takes Mingyu deep into his mouth, swallowing around him and pulling a devastated whimper from his chest. 

There’s something to be said for the way one can suck dick when one is not burdened with the need to breathe like a regular human being, and also Mingyu feels like he’s shaking out of his body. Or, he would, were his vampire beau not also holding him down effortlessly, which in and of itself serves to turn him on more. It’s all rather cyclical in nature.

It’s just terrible, how good Minghao is at using the slightest touch to take Mingyu apart. So considering and controlled, tuning Mingyu like a well-loved instrument, winding him tighter and tauter and plucking at his fine points until he sings. Minghao’s long, pretty fingers follow his mouth until they wrap around the base of Mingyu’s cock, and Mingyu curses when he gets his mouth around the head. Just awful, to be this good.

Worse still is the focused, sharp way Minghao gazes up at him, lazily moving the fingertips of his resting arm back and forth across the edge of Mingyu’s stomach. He _ carefully, _ ever so slowly, drags his tongue through the stream of precome threatening to drip over their skin where it’s pressed together, and Mingyu feels pinned under his gaze, biting his lip through a whimper with each lick of Minghao’s tongue. It peeks through his teeth, framed with fangs, and just looking at it makes the pressure behind Mingyu’s bellybutton build precariously fast.

He doesn’t want to come like this. 

Well, he does.

But he really doesn’t.

“Hold—hold on,” Mingyu says, feeling brave all of a sudden.

Minghao gives him a curious expression, eyes wide and open, eyebrows knit with concern, one elegant hand still wrapped around his dick. He could cry about it.

“It’s okay, it’s,” Mingyu laughs softly to loosen his thoughts, “It’s more than okay, it feels… _ You _ feel so good, I was just wondering. Ah. Is there a way I can… feel your bite?” It sounds clumsy and embarrassing to bare himself like this. Is that the right way to phrase it? Is there a right way to phrase it? Mingyu worries his lower lip. He feels a little out of touch with himself.

With a strangled noise, Minghao lays his head on his arm, and Mingyu’s thighs tense when he accidentally grazes Mingyu’s dick. “Mingyu…” he starts, adjusting his position a little.

Mingyu shakes his head. “No, no, don’t worry about it. I’m sorry, I just thought maybe…”

“Is that something you want?”

Yes. No. Yes, obviously. Mingyu stares up at the canopy on Minghao’s bed for a minute, trying to tease the answer out of his own brain. 

Minghao is looking up at him, eyes thoughtful and bright and clear, standing at the edge of the water and gazing endlessly straight down into the bottom. Their eyes catch, and Mingyu can imagine Minghao’s ears pinkening, a good six hundred years ago. Things must have been so different then. He wonders if Minghao was different then. If he was colder, inside, rather than the chill of his body now that the blood no longer rushes through him.

“There’s a safe way,” Minghao says, almost absently. “If it’s not a major vein or artery you won’t turn.”

“Oh,” is all Mingyu can say.

As soon as the word _ turn _leaves Minghao’s mouth, Mingyu is thinking about it. About how they’ve been… dating? Sleeping together? Going steady? for months, now, and how if someone asked, he wouldn’t be able to lie and say he hasn’t wondered what it would be like to turn. For Minghao to turn him. To have forever, like Soonyoung gave Jeonghan.

But it’s not something Mingyu and Minghao talk about, or acknowledge at all, really. Like vampires in society as a whole, known but not discussed at length, a fact of life that blurs in the background. So to have this, to be as close as they can get without the turn...

Mingyu tries not to betray how much he wants it, but the bottoms of his feet tingle, and he knows Minghao can feel the way the muscles in his stomach jump about it. “Yes, please.”

Minghao lifts his head, runs his fingertips devastatingly slowly up Mingyu’s stomach, over his waist, back down to his hips, like he’s making a map. Quiet, voice even, Minghao asks, “Do you trust me?”

Chewing on his lip, Mingyu nods and reaches down to touch Minghao’s face, fingertips over porcelain cheekbone. “Of course,” Mingyu says, and it isn’t ragged, or breathy, it’s clear, ringing beautifully, terribly true. Minghao smiles, almost shy around his fangs, and Mingyu feels acutely the weight of his heart in his chest. Hammering a beat of _ yes, of course, _ and _ please, yes, _ and _ yours, yours _against his skin, tight like a drum.

He nods again, catching Minghao’s heavy gaze. There must be some sort of look on Mingyu’s face, because Minghao lets out another little aborted sound, closing his eyes, pretty, for just a moment, and kisses again, openmouthed, at where Mingyu’s stomach turns into his hip, where the path of his fingertips traced just moments before.

“Yes,” Mingyu breathes again. He doesn’t want there to be any question.

As if in response, Minghao’s other hand tightens _ just _so against his other side, the tremor before the tsunami, and he sinks his fangs into Mingyu’s skin, slow and sure like acupuncture.

“Oh!” Mingyu cries out, head thrown back and eyelashes fluttering.

Good wouldn’t come close to how Mingyu would describe it. Not in the same class, certainly not the same century. Minghao has told him a little about hyperbole, about how the very nature of it laughs at the idea of people experiencing enough in their lifetime to draw comparisons. It was very intelligent and profound and Mingyu paid rapt attention the whole time, but then Minghao pressed a kiss to the skin below Mingyu’s ear and quietly called him, “The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” so things proceeded accordingly.

The rolling boil of icy heat trembles through Mingyu, and he registers, faintly, Minghao’s hands on his waist, moving quickly to let Mingyu’s back arch up off Minghao’s bed. There’s a sensation like melting that comes over him, and every breath he draws tingles through him from his head to his toes.

“Okay, honey?” Minghao murmurs unevenly, and when Mingyu looks at him, his eyes are blown, lips tinted a little pink-red, his tongue tracing along them, toying with one of his fangs. Mingyu feels pleasure rolling off Minghao in waves, all that vampiric energy simultaneously euphoric and dulcifying. His voice is tight when he says, “I think the first fangprick is the strongest. If you… if you want more they shouldn’t feel so overwhelming.”

“You—you think?” Mingyu asks shakily, and Minghao traces a pattern on his hip around the laved-over bite. Mingyu can’t stop trembling, body alight where Minghao’s fingertip swirls delicate shapes up and down his side.

Minghao looks up at Mingyu through his eyelashes, and his body is drawn tight like a bow with effort, holding himself back from… something. He almost looks shy when he says quietly, fangs still tinged pink, “I’ve never done this before.”

Something about that —_ never? _— shakes Mingyu apart, and he forgets everything. How hard he is, his own name, everything except this. “Then keep going,” he breathes. “Please, Minghao.”

“Okay. Okay. Yes. I can’t believe you’re real,” Minghao mutters, but kisses, wetly and desperately, against Mingyu’s side.

A kiss, a fangprick, another wave of pleasure rolling up Mingyu’s spine, over and over, torturously slow. Four, five, ten. 

Mingyu feels hot all over, melted over with _ need, _each new fangprick a new spot aglow, and there’s a heavy, tugging feeling behind his stomach, and he can hear himself panting with want.

With each little bite, Minghao’s grip tightens, then releases, like he remembers himself, like he doesn’t want to hurt Mingyu. It’s considerate, and makes Mingyu’s chest contract, a hot towel wrung out. Absently, Mingyu hopes he has a couple of bruises to press into later. Wants as many marks as Minghao is willing to give him.

Inching upward, Minghao’s lips brush Mingyu’s nipple, and Mingyu lets out another unbecoming whine. After dragging the flat of his tongue more pointedly over it, Minghao laughs quietly, and it cuts through the haze settled over Mingyu’s head. It’s crisp and reverberant, like a bell ringing, like Mingyu shaken awake, and he sees, clearly now, Minghao’s mouth smeared raspberry wine. His tongue keeps darting out to lick his lips and clean over Mingyu’s skin, but the faint red remains. If Mingyu didn’t know better he would think it was liptint, some idol look, a CF for Innisfree. But Mingyu does know better. And this _ is _ better.

“God, you look beautiful,” Mingyu says. 

Minghao’s eyes flash bright up at him, eyebrows shot up, the moment at a surprise party when you flick on the lights and realize everyone you love is there.

Instead of responding, Minghao’s ears blush coral at the tips, and it’s Mingyu’s turn to be surprised. Mingyu moves to touch one gently, to run a hand over the nape of Minghao’s neck and trace his thumb over the shell of Minghao’s ear, and Minghao’s eyes widen, sweet even as he sucks one of his fangs clean.

“That’s pretty,” Mingyu says reverently. “I didn’t know you could blush.”

“It’s because of your blood,” Minghao says, and his voice is low, nearly a hum. He sounds almost embarrassed, glowing sunset pink-gold at the edges, and Mingyu wants to kiss him.

So Mingyu asks urgently, fluttering his hands up near his face, “Come here?”

Minghao obliges, scooting up and framing his arms around Mingyu’s head. Mingyu doesn’t know why he would bother pretending he doesn’t like that, so he hums happily and leans up, pressing his mouth hungrily to Minghao’s. It’s messy, openmouthed, Mingyu breathing raggedly into the space between them when they part, over and over. 

Mingyu reaches up to play with the long hair at the back of Minghao’s neck, and Minghao shudders, eyes shut and face soft. With the next kiss, Mingyu softens too, scratching his nails softly over Minghao’s nape, feeling him lean in a little and follow the kiss when they break apart. 

Minghao spends his whole lifetime, almost to the minute, taking care of other people at the haven, at the coven house. He should be taken care of, too.

When Minghao comes home from work, he’s still all buttoned up, silk and lace and jewels and elegant layers climbing up his body like they were built around him. There’s something that fans the ember in Mingyu’s stomach thinking about how, for the better part of an hour, Minghao has hovered over him, done up to the neck like a Gothic dream, while Mingyu has been totally naked, spread out among his sheets and pillows, a treasure in a jewelry box. 

But that can only last so long. Mingyu wants _ more, _always wants more, when it comes to Minghao, wants as much as Minghao can give him, and tries not to think about how far that desire extends. Now, Mingyu lets his hands run to the buttons at the hollow of Minghao’s throat, pushing them through the holes and revealing smooth skin, pressing gentle kisses to his mouth all the while.

Between them, he can feel the sharpness of fangs Minghao is trying so hard to protect Mingyu from running his tongue over, catching his mouth on, feels the way Minghao draws back ever so slightly when Mingyu presses forward. 

Always so composed.

A little less so when Minghao’s hands join Mingyu’s in tugging at his clothes, yanking off his blouse and haphazardly pushing the rest of his clothes off, letting the gauzy material flutter down to join Mingyu’s sweater and shorts on the floor at the side of the bed. They look pretty together, the light and the warm, tangled together on Minghao’s rug.

When Mingyu looks back up into Minghao’s face, he’s already gazing back, eyes low and fangs glinting, the ambient light glowing over his skin. 

Mingyu thinks he’s probably supposed to be afraid of the hungry look in Minghao’s eyes. But instead, he’s the one who feels hungry. “Touch me,” Mingyu says, even as his own hands move down to tease at the inside of Minghao’s legs, fingers brushing near where he’s hard.

“Mingyu,” mutters Minghao. He lets out an involuntary, airy giggle when Mingyu runs his thumb over the crease at his inner thigh, and it makes both of them smile.

Mingyu never gets tired of the giddy feeling that settles into his bones with every laugh and smile he manages to tug out of Minghao. Just knowing that Minghao has to trust someone for the emotion to spread, for that palpable sense of comfort and joy to move into his chest, makes a similar feeling curl around his heart and his lungs.

“If you want me to touch you,” Minghao says, swallowing around the words, “You—you have to stop touching—me! _ Mingyu!” _ His voice catches mid-admonishment when Mingyu wraps a hand around Minghao’s cock, gives him wide, innocent eyes as he pumps him a few times. Minghao loves when Mingyu is noisy for him, but Mingyu relishes the small moments he can surprise Minghao in return.

Mingyu sighs, woebegone, twists his wrist to wring out another high groan from Minghao. “I just want you to feel good.”

“Do I not seem like I feel good? Do you need me to bite you some more? Show you how good I feel?”

The tone of Minghao’s voice sparks a fire in the pit of Mingyu’s stomach, flint and obsidian, but Mingyu can’t help but thumb over his slit, savor the hiss that sings through Minghao’s fangs, can do nothing but grin dopily when Minghao tugs his arms up and pins them to the bed.

Minghao takes one look at his face and laughs, a huff of a thing like an exhale. “Okay, honey. I can do that.”

Mingyu closes his eyes, lets Minghao move away from him, lets him let go of Mingyu for a miserable few moments, tries to even out his breathing.

The next thing he feels is pads of fingers, wet and warm, gliding gently over his hole, and he keens quietly, eyes snapping open. Minghao doesn’t look smug, the way he expected, but big-eyed and a little wonderstruck, which feels very… different. For once, Mingyu doesn’t know what to say, so he lies still and lets Minghao speak.

“Is this what you want?”

Lips frozen parted, Mingyu nods.

Minghao fingers him open slowly, the way he’s done everything else tonight and every night, and with each movement of his hand he nips just below Mingyu’s collarbone, punctuating the messy scrape of fangs with soothing little licks, cleaning over the tiny fangpricks as soon as they appear. Hips circling, pressing back against Minghao’s hand, Mingyu’s eyes flutter open and shut, torn between gazing at Minghao and feeling too much.

“More,” Mingyu whines, torn out of him like he can’t _ not _say it, and Minghao hums softly, adding another finger, sinking teeth into Mingyu at the same time. “Fuck, oh God.”

“No one has ever been this beautiful.”

It could be any part of it: the murmured praise, the slow syrupy feeling melting over his chest where Minghao’s fangs withdraw, the brush of Minghao’s long fingers over his prostate, but Mingyu feels the edge hurtling toward him.

“Please!”

At his tone, Minghao stops moving. “Is everything all right? Is it too much?”

The heavy, sharp rise and fall of Mingyu’s chest, looking like the night sky with its littering of marks, and the accompanying shuddering breaths are the only movement and sound in the stillness of Minghao’s bedroom. Minghao waits, and that alone makes Mingyu’s heartbeat thunder through his ears.

“It’s so much, but.” Mingyu tries to laugh but nothing comes out. “I want more. I want you to fuck me, wanna make you come, please.”

It’s desperate and longing and dripping with want, and Minghao’s face is unreadable. He slowly, always so fucking slow, withdraws his fingers, and leans over Mingyu to kiss him again. Mingyu expects it to be soft and delicate, but Minghao surges forward, kisses him desperately, messily, making these little noises Mingyu wants to hear forever. It would make a highly inappropriate ringtone. He works with children, after all. But the idea is tempting.

It comes out like a prayer when Minghao asks against his mouth, “How do you want it?”

Mingyu answers in kind. “Hard,” he breathes, just this side of begging, and Minghao moans, a low roll like thunder over the city, pressing his fingertips over the tingling fangpricks on Mingyu’s waist as they roam over his sides. Minghao drags his mouth over Mingyu’s jaw, ghosts of kisses, as he moves back, rolls on a condom, lines himself up.

Infinitesimally, minutely, Minghao’s hands tighten on Mingyu’s hips, and he fucks in hard, all at once, punching a high-pitched keen out of Mingyu. It makes his mouth fall open, his short fingernails biting like fangpricks of their own on Minghao’s back as Mingyu grasps at him desperately. _ God, _ it feels, it feels, it _ feels. _

This is all technically what Seokmin asked shyly about when he asked Mingyu about his vampire boyfriend, what he envisioned when Minghao’s eyes darkened when their skin touched for the first time, what he thinks about when he’s alone at night. It’s technically all of those things.

But… this is all so much more than that. Mingyu’s eyes roll back with Minghao’s movements, and it’s so fucking _ precise, _ just what Mingyu asked for, he can feel his legs shaking with it. “Minghao,” he says, and hears a braver version of himself say, _ I love you, _and gasps with the sudden realization just as much as he gasps with the next snap of Minghao’s hips into him. “Oh, oh—”

Minghao’s eyes are dark as Mingyu has ever seen them, glittering geode with desire as he gazes down at Mingyu, holding onto one of Mingyu’s legs for leverage. Faintly, Mingyu thinks he might be saying something, but each drag of Minghao’s dick against his walls pulls more ability to comprehend any audiovisual input out of his brain. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Mingyu whimpers.

“You’re so good, Mingyu, so good for me,” Minghao moans, and Mingyu keens, grabbing for Minghao like it’s all he can do, because it’s kind of all he can do. Minghao is pounding into him, and it feels so good, distilled and concentrated. But he’s still holding back, Mingyu _ knows _it, and it’s to keep him safe, which is too much.

He’s been too close, too long. The train is careening around the bend and is going to tip over and slide off the rails with a screech and a groan, and Mingyu absolutely needs to just keep shoveling coal into the engine.

“I want you to come for me, honey,” Minghao says, one pretty hand on Mingyu’s waist, the other at his face. It’s tender, which aches. 

And it’s probably stupid, but:

“My–my, my neck, you can, please, you can—” Mingyu gasps, eyes scrunched shut, tight, throwing his head back to bare his neck. With another devastatingly slow, deep roll of his hips, Minghao’s cock nudges against Mingyu’s prostate again, and Mingyu is clinging, absolutely _ clinging _ to the edge.

“My forever boy, my Mingyu-yah,” Minghao mutters, low and growly under his ear, and Mingyu comes, Minghao’s fangs buried in the crook of his neck, and his own name in Minghao’s voice echoing in his ear.

He barely registers the way Minghao clings closer as he shakes and moans through his own orgasm, face pressed into Mingyu’s neck even when he pulls out, unnaturally warm against his skin where it shimmers with sweat. 

Mingyu’s hands, bitten on the palms by his own nails, unfurl to card through Minghao’s hair, still soft and pretty despite its bed-mess. His cheek feels warm nuzzled up under Mingyu’s jaw, and he’s still faintly pink all over. _ Beautiful _ was what Minghao had called him, but Mingyu wants to frame this moment. Commission an oil painting. Minghao has a few hanging on his wall, dated wildly across the centuries, but no portraits. Maybe for his birthday. It’s not every year a man celebrates six hundred forty-two, after all.

Briefly he wonders if he’ll ache in the morning, and, if so, where. Hopefully everywhere. If Mingyu can’t have reminders forever, as long as he physically can will suffice. 

That thought sticks in Mingyu’s throat with grit and dryness, and he moves to untangle himself from Minghao, whose supernatural body weight holds him fast.

“Mm, stay with me longer, Mingyu,” Minghao says sweetly, lips brushing Mingyu’s earlobe.

And there are no excuses, no ethereal waves of lust or calm or joy radiating from Minghao that make up Mingyu’s mind. Just the feeling of a gentle kiss to his carotid, fang-free, and the weight of the eiderdown Minghao pulls over them. Mingyu needs to drink water, needs to get up and stretch his legs and clean up a bit, but, more than that, he wants to stay.

Just for now, just their next few minutes.

Or even longer.

**Author's Note:**

> i started this saying “ah, yes, mingyu getting railed,” and ended up with romantic horny gyuhao again. that’s... just how it is.
> 
> perhaps one day i’ll be able to leave this universe. thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/eightpaint/) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


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